The biases of a seven-day week have no merit here. The deluge of repetition washes over your unsuspecting psyche like a housecat slipping into a bathtub. In the absence of formal structure, rituals arise. Candles, cat faces, Garfields. These candles were lit to mark the passage of time, but they aren’t burning out. Time is frozen, and Garfield is present en masse to bear witness. John is not here, and John might not have ever existed. Wash, rinse, repeat.